


Various fills etc.

by orphan_account



Category: IT Crowd, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Prostitution, Beards, Crack, Fluff, IT Crowd crossover, Jealousy, Killer Sherlock, M/M, Past John Watson/Greg Lestrade, Sentient Facial Hair, Sickfic, convoluted romance, past strippers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a place for all the works I don't think stand alone particularly well. I expect it will mostly be responses to prompts or tumblr ficlets, but we'll see!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catching Holmes Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to the [prompt:](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128392454#t128392454)
> 
> John and Lestrade knew each other before they met the Holmes brothers.
> 
> They both used to work in the same strip club to pay for expenses not covered by their scholarships.
> 
> They were even lovers for a while, before deciding they worked better as friends.
> 
> Now the two friends are helping each other to snag the Holmes Brother of their dreams.
> 
> Which may take a while, because for all their intellect, the Holmes boys are notoriously thick when it comes to matters of the heart.

“John Watson? It is! John Watson, as I live and breathe, how’ve you been, mate?” Lestrade had stopped rather abruptly in his description of the latest serial suicide when he spotted Sherlock’s companion.

“Greg?” John replied, sounding equally surprised and pleased. He limped over to Lestrade and they exchanged a brief, friendly kiss. Sherlock stared at them in shock.

“I’ve been, well,” John gestured to his cane. “I’ve seen better days.”

Lestrade snorted. “I can’t imagine a little thing like being shot would slow you down too much. I can’t believe it’s you, what are the odds?”

“Look at you though,” John said, sounding rather proud. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Congratulations mate.”

“Oh, no,” Lestrade said modestly. “I’ve been sitting at home giving out parking tickets while you’ve been overseas getting shot at for Queen and Country.”

“I take it you two know each other, then?” Sherlock said, still sounding slightly dazed.

“Yeah, we worked together while we were going through university,” Lestrade explained. “But we lost contact after John went in the army.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” John said awkwardly. 

“No, it’s fine,” Lestrade. “We just drifted apart. It happens. And here we are again.”

“And you... dated?” Sherlock confirmed.

John grinned fondly at Lestrade. “Yeah, for a time. Decided we were better off as friends.”

“The sex was phenomenal though,” Lestrade said, enjoying the way Sherlock’s features froze. John laughed and punched Lestrade on the arm.

*

Lestrade and John met up for a beer a few nights after the serial suicide case.

“So what’s going on with you now?” John asked. “Sherlock said you’re married?”

“Mm,” Lestrade said. “Not so much. Getting a divorce soon.”   
“That’s a shame,” John said sympathetically. 

“And you? Anyone special in your life?”

“Nah,” John said. “Never felt right dating someone while I was in the army.”

“Ah well, you’re out now,” Lestrade said. “We’ll have to go on the pull together one day.”

*

Between beer, coffee, sandwiches and tea, John and Lestrade managed to see quite a bit of each other outside of work. Both were surprised and delighted to find that the spark that had made them such good friends in their youth was still there, and they easily fell back into each other’s lives.

“Do you ever look at Sherlock and feel the urge to just push him against the wall and kiss him until he shuts up?” John said after a long day cooped up with Sherlock. Lestrade laughed.

“No, I can honestly say I’ve never had that urge,” Lestrade said.

  “Just me then, thought as much.”

*

During the next case Lestrade had to call Sherlock in for, he kept a close eye on Sherlock and John’s interactions, pleased for his friend when he saw the way Sherlock lit up in response to John’s praise, and stood closely to him, touching him freely, if quite innocently. Lestrade decided to see if he could direct the detective’s thoughts somewhere a little more lascivious. 

“They’re a bit different from the ones we used to wear, eh?” Lestrade said, gesturing to one of the police constable’s uniform. John chuckled.

 “I’ll bet,” John said. “They certainly look sturdier.”

“You two were never in the police service together,” Sherlock said, frowning, upset as he always was when presented with new information that disagreed with his previous findings.

“No,” Lestrade said casually. “We used to work in a strip club. It’s where we met.”

Sherlock stiffened, glancing frantically between Lestrade and John, clearly struggling to process this new information.

“We’d do themed shows,” Lestrade added helpfully. “Police, fireman, navy, that sort of thing.”

“Mm, bit of a surprise the first time I wore my uniform and discovered it took more than five seconds to get out of,” John said. “I’d never appreciated velcro more.”

“Still, I don’t miss finding glitter everywhere,” Lestrade said. 

“And that oil could be a bitch to get out of underwear,” John said.

Sherlock continued to stare blankly at John, mouth slightly open, as John and Lestrade turned back to discussing the case.

*

“Do you ever look at Mycroft and feel the urge to rip him out of those posh suits?” Lestrade said one night after an encounter with Mycroft he had found particularly sexually charged. John choked slightly on his beer.

“Christ, no,” John said. “I take it you do?”

  “He just always looks so proper,” Lestrade said. “Makes me want to corrupt him, properly, possibly in the back seat of his ridiculous cars or maybe in an alleyway somewhere, I haven’t decided yet.”

 

“But you’ve given it some thought?” John said.

“Some days my job is filled with long boring hours of paperwork. It’s either that or go slowly mad.”

*

“So how’s it going with Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, unwrapping his store bought sandwich and handing John half.  

“It’s not,” John said sourly. “I can’t work out how he hasn’t gotten the message yet. I mean, there’s only so many times I can lick my lips in a conversation. I’m surprised someone hasn’t bought me a chap stick yet.”

“They’re a bit slow on the uptake, the Holmes brothers,” Lestrade mused idly. 

“If by that you mean bloody thick, then yes, I quite agree,” John said. “Things not going well with Mycroft, then, I take it?”

  “Not going at all,” Lestrade said. “I don’t think we’re even facing the same direction.”

John and Lestrade sat in silence, chewing slowly on their slightly soggy sandwiches. 

“Next time I see him,” John said thoughtfully. “Maybe I should mention you, and see how Mycroft reacts.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade said.  “It’s worth a shot.”

*

Mycroft had once again kidnapped John in the name of brotherly love, and they spent a pleasant fifteen or so minutes sniping back and forth. Once the business portion of the meeting was over, John relaxed his stance, and commented as casually as he could,

“Lestrade’s looking fit at the moment, isn’t he? I mean, he was a looker when we were young, but he’s seems to have gotten sexier and sexier over the years.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows narrowed slightly, and John could have sworn his pupil’s dilated. Perhaps there was hope here after all? John certainly hoped so, not just because he wanted his friend to be happy, but also because it would be nice to have a friend to bitch to about Holmes men if he and Sherlock ever worked things out.

*

“Mycroft definitely responded when I mentioned how gorgeous you are,” John said triumphantly. “I mean, it was all those tiny twitches and fractional movements he limits himself to, but I would estimate the reaction was 15% curious, 60% lustful, and 25% jealousy. I think you’re onto something there.”

“Cheers, mate,” Lestrade said. He took a thoughtful sip of tea. “I wonder if jealousy is the key here?”

*

“Good lord John has a great arse,” Lestrade said to Sherlock as John crouched over a corpse, one day. “I have some very fond memories of that arse.” 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Lestrade before turning back to inspecting the corpse.

*

“You know, I somehow managed to forget just how flexible Greg can be,” John said, licking his lips and winking at Mycroft, after a fairly standard kidnap and conversation session. “You should have seen him yesterday, my god.”

Mycroft tightened his hand slightly around the handle of his umbrella, but simply said, “Good day, Doctor Watson. My assistant will show you out.”

*

 “Anything?” John asked. Lestrade shook his head. John groaned. “Same.”

*

“I’m glad he still has strong thighs,” Lestrade commented to Sherlock as they watched John launch himself at a suspect. “The world wouldn’t be quite the same without a John Watson with wonder thighs in it. Made him a fantastic dancer of course, but it was through more intimate experiences that I truly learnt the value of those thighs.”

Sherlock blinked at Lestrade, shook his head and jogged over to John and the thoroughly apprehended suspect.

*

“Lestrade was leaning against a telegraph pole the other day and Christ that took me back,” John said, sipping his tea casually. Mycroft put his cup down deliberately. “I wonder where you can buy tear-off sequin shorts these days.”

Mycroft didn’t have a chance to answer, as Sherlock stormed back in to the lounge, resuming a rant with great enthusiasm.

*

“Still nothing?” Lestrade said in frustration. “How can there still be nothing?”

“Because for all their supposed brilliance,” John said. “These men are utterly clueless when it comes to love.”

“Love, eh?” Lestrade said. “Getting serious is it, then?”

John groaned. “He’s totally mad, completely impossible, and utterly fantastic.”

Lestrade patted his back sympathetically, looking thoughtful.

*

To say that Sherlock was taken aback when, at the next crime scene not long after John had wandered over to do some doctoring on a victim, Lestrade started describing, in great detail, some incredibly depraved sexual acts he would enjoy exploring with John, was an understatement. Once Sherlock had processed what exactly Lestrade was talking about, his face hardened and he marched over to John, grabbing his arm and dragging him back to Lestrade. Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders firmly, shot a dirty look at Lestrade, growling, “He’s mine. You had your chance, back off,” before kissing John possessively and pulling him away from the crime scene towards the nearest taxi. John glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, grinning and giving him a thumbs up.

“For someone who’s spent the last few weeks expressing their wonder over the desirable attributes of Doctor Watson, you don’t seem terribly upset that he’s just left with Sherlock.”

Lestrade looked behind him in surprise, wondering how long Mycroft had been there. He couldn’t bring himself to worry, though, as he was so happy for his friend’s success and also fairly certain there had been more than a few notes of jealousy in Mycroft’s reprimand. So he simply grabbed Mycroft’s tie, and pulled him down for a kiss.

*

“Sherlock’s worse than ever,” John said. “No sense of personal space, bloody possessive, and seems to treat everything from ‘cuppa tea?’ to ‘why the hell is there a severed foot in the crisper?’ as a potential come on. How ‘bout yours?”

“Taken to kidnapping me several times a week and insists on proper dates a restaurants where the meals cost more than my suits.” Lestrade said.

“They’re sort of amazing, aren’t they?”


	2. In Which Mycroft Doesn't Get Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to the [prompt:](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128411654#t128411654) Mycroft at 221b Baker Street, with a cold or the flu, disheveled, bundled into one of John's jumpers and holding a nice cup of tea.
> 
> Go from there.

Mycroft didn’t get sick. He made a point of it. If it were possible, he would have outlawed it. Being sick was messy, inconvenient and uncomfortable. Through rigid hygiene routines, limiting time spent in or near others’ personal space, carrying an umbrella so he was never caught in rain, and sheer force of will, Mycroft had reached a state of being wherein he was quite incapable of suffering from something so pedestrian as the ‘flu. Which he tried to explain to John Watson, as he refused to accept the paracetamol and thick jumper.

All of John’s ‘evidence’ in favour of this diagnosis was easily explained:

His streaming nose was clearly just a result of the sudden temperature change from the frigid outside air and the beautifully warm flat. The persistent cough? Obviously he had just breathed in some dust, a common enough occurrence in 221b. He wasn’t feverish; his brain simply ran at a higher speed than others, excess heat a natural result of this.

“And I suppose when you vomit all over my shoes in about three minutes, it will be because you can no longer physically stand to be surrounded by the stupidity of the world,” John said soothingly, pulling Mycroft over to the bathroom. “Come on, I’ve been through all of this with Sherlock. If you won’t, and I know for a fact you won’t, go home and take it easy, you’re going to have to stay here while you get over the worst of it and I can keep an eye on you.”

Mycroft would have smoothly argued back and cleverly convinced John of his wellbeing, but his mouth was otherwise occupied with the toilet. John ran a soothing hand over Mycroft’s head and helped clean Mycroft up. After this, Mycroft was a little more agreeable to being bundled up in a thick woolly jumper that smelled pleasingly of John, accepted a cup of tea and swallowed some tablets, only making one small comment to the effect that he would indulge John in this pointless exercise as a sort of thanks for John taking care of his little brother. John laughed and eased Mycroft down until he was lying on the couch, fetching a cold compress for his forehead, and tucking a blanket firmly around him. Mycroft was asleep in minutes.

It was nearly four hours before Mycroft woke again, looking bleary-eyed, clutching his forehead and moaning. John took his temperature, pleased to find it was improved, gave him another cup of tea and two more paracetamols. He was asleep again in under fifteen minutes.

Myrcoft woke again around dinner time, and sat up, sipping delicately at the instant soup John had heated for him. His temperature was still high, but not enough to worry John. After he finished his soup, Mycroft settled back down sleepily on the couch and treated John to long and rather incoherent rambles on the state of the nation, how impossible it was having Sherlock as a younger brother, and, from what John could make out, who he hoped would win X-Factor.

Sherlock came home early in the evening and was rather appalled to find his brother dozing on his lounge, but John cut his rant off with a stern whisper. He forced Sherlock into the kitchen for some beans on toast, letting Sherlock tell him about his brilliance that day. John’s praise soon soothed Sherlock enough for Sherlock to see just how ill his brother was and take that peculiar delight that only siblings could in how useless Mycroft was.

Mycroft woke a few times in the night too out of it to notice anything beyond the water and tablets beside his head, and it was nearly dawn before he realised John was sleeping in one of the armchairs opposite. It made him feel guilty, but also warm in a way that had nothing to do with his raised temperature.

By morning, Mycroft’s temperature was back to normal and he gratefully took up John’s suggestion of a shower, keenly aware of his wrinkled, sweaty suit. When he stumbled out of the bathroom, skin pink and hair in disarray, and just so gorgeous and open, John reached for him without thinking and kissed him softly. Mycroft looked at him in horror and John worried, with a sickening twist in his gut, that he had made a huge mistake.

“Don’t tell me you did that to my brother when he recovered,” Mycroft said, looking quite disgusted. John laughed, relieved, and kissed him again.

“Definitely not,” John said. “He wasn’t half as good a patient as you.”

And to John’s delight, Mycroft let out a small laugh, wrapped his hands around John’s waist and leaned in to kiss the shell of John’s ear, whispering,

“If this is what happens when people get sick, I rather regret avoiding it for so long.”


	3. The Beard Wants What the Beard Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson's beard is in love with Sherlock. Anderson does not approve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to the [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125674689#t125674689): "Sherlock/Anderson's Beard
> 
> From the unaired pilot, Anderson had a rather impressive, almost sentient looking facerug.
> 
> A facerug imbued with incredible sexual magnetism and prowess ... 
> 
> Anderson's beard has the hots for Sherlock Holmes. This makes its owner uncomfortable and snappish.
> 
> Pretty please with extra cracky crack on top?"
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=128596161#t128596161).

Anderson always knew the instant Sherlock would enter a room. Every single hair in his beard would stand to attention and sort of _strain_ in Sherlock’s direction. His cheeks would flush with embarrassment, his brows furrow in frustration, his nostrils flair with irritation, and indeed every other part of Anderson reacted appropriately to the bloody annoying git sweeping in to ruin Anderson’s life. But no, his beard had failed to get the memo that Sherlock Holmes was bad news. The detective would stalk into a room and start spilling secrets and nonsense at high speeds and Anderson’s traitorous beard would yearn to be closer to that yapping jaw, to rub against the ridiculous cheek bones, to frame the mouth that churned out an enormous quantity of words, tease the lips that never stumbled.

Anderson loved his beard. He cared for it, tended to it, was proud of the thick hair that had seemed like such a pipe dream in his youth. It was soft enough that his girlfriends loved the feel of it against their skin, took the time to stroke it luxuriously when they kissed him, moaned appreciatively when it rubbed against their thighs, and some even enjoyed trimming, cleaning and combing it for him.

Unfortunately facts were facts. And the facts were that Anderson loathed Sherlock; Anderson’s bead loved Sherlock; and Anderson hated and was bewildered by this reaction. The only solution was for the beard to go, and if Anderson cried a little as he watched the little brown hairs gather desolately in the sink then the man could hardly be criticised. The beard had been gorgeous.

This worked for a while. True, Anderson’s jaw felt bereft and cold in the winter, and he had caught his wife staring mournfully at his bare neck more than once as she stroked their pet cat. He missed his beard, he wasn’t going to deny it, but he couldn’t regret shaving it. The peace of mind was worth the struggle to put razor to face day after day. Anderson’s reactions to Sherlock entering a room were 100% loathing. All was right in the world once more.

Then one day John Watson walked in with a moustache.

Even from a distance, everyone could see how John’s moustache kept John’s face angled towards Sherlock. How it puffed up with pride every time Sherlock made an implausibly brilliant deduction. How it stood on end when Sherlock was threatened or insulted. The bloody thing _preened_ when Sherlock complimented John and if he wasn’t careful, John was at risk of his moustache throwing itself and John’s lips and nose at Sherlock’s mouth.

Anderson had been beard free for years, but the tiny hair cells just breaking through the skin protested vociferously at this new facial hair’s reaction to _their_ Sherlock. His skin tingled and his jaw ached. Against his will, Anderson felt himself grow angry. He spent the next few weeks glaring at John’s facial fluff and furiously growing out his beard.

“Christ, Sherlock, I kissed you because I _fancy_ you,” John said, as he entered a crime scene one day, just as Anderson’s beard had reached a new peak in resplendence. “It had nothing to do with my bloody moustache. If it bothers you that much, just tell me. Don’t give me any guff about sentient facial hair, frankly, it’s just insulting and childish.”

“It’s not guff,” Sherlock huffed following close behind John. “I have merely compiled extensive evidence and-”

Precisely what Sherlock had done with said evidence was to remain a mystery ever after as at that moment Anderson’s beard had gained enough momentum to hurl Anderson across the room and the beard’s subsequent nuzzling along Sherlock’s bare jaw caused the entire room to fall into a slack jawed silence.

“What the bloody hell-” John started to say as his wits returned to him, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.

“Anderson’s beard is in love with me,” Sherlock said tiredly. He returned the steady glare Anderson was giving him.

“Anderson is not in love-” John began to protest, but he was once again stopped by Sherlock.

“Not _Anderson_ ,” Sherlock said firmly. “Anderson’s _beard_.”

Sherlock pushed Anderson away from his face, grasped his shoulder and stared intently into Anderson’s eyes.

“Just because my fingers long to stroke the glory that is your beard, or fondle the magnificence that is Lestrade’s arse or tap out a sonata against John’s back doesn’t mean I let them,” Sherlock said. “You must keep control over your body. _Honestly_.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked back out of the room. It was all Anderson could do to stop his beard from throwing itself after him. John looked back and forth between Anderson and the door through which Sherlock had just exited, tugging thoughtfully at his moustache.

“So, if I shave this, I’ll stop wanting to shag him?” John asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” Anderson said with exaggerated nonchalance. His beard quivered with excitement at the thought of its rival’s demise. “Sure.”


	4. A Most Interesting Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's a serial killer who only kidnaps and tortures suicidal people. John, being suicidal, is an ideal candidate. Little do they know what will happen to one another when they meet.
> 
> *Not actually dark! No torture depicted!* Any references to torture are vague and flippant. It is in fact kind of cracky and well, I wouldn't go as far as fluffy, but it's not dark or gory or angsty. Also: no suicidal thought are depicted, the whole topic is referred to either idly or irreverently when it comes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125694401#t125694401): "Sherlock is a sadist serial killer who tortures his victims for days before killing them.
> 
> He choses his victims not among bad people because he hasn't got any moral code, but among suicidal people because since they are already going to kill themselves why shouldn't he take advantage?
> 
> John is just back from afghanistan, he is suicidal, so he is kidnapped by Sherlock who plans to kill him... 
> 
> Sherlock begins to torture him but John reacts in such a different way from the other victims that Sherlock is intrigued..."

Morally defensible serial killing was a difficult concept to actualise. There were many schools of thought on it, and several options to consider, but Sherlock thought his idea was the best. It wasn’t that Sherlock thought of himself as a moralist, nor did he seek to be considered one by others, but there was something satisfying and soothing to be able to say, “All of my victims wanted to die, even before I started to torture them. In the end, I did them a favour by ending their miserable lives, it seems only fair that I get some pleasure out of the bargain.”

Sherlock kept no pattern in when, where or who when it came to selecting victims. It certainly made not getting caught easier, but more importantly it made the whole process more interesting. He hated to think what he could turn to if kidnapping and torturing people became dull. He might have to join a book club, perish the thought.

So it was through pure chance that Sherlock managed to snag the most interesting victim of his career on Tuesday afternoon.

After assessing his suitability for the night’s entertainment, the first impression Sherlock had of the ex-solider was that he was dull. Terribly common, frightfully ordinary, but it hardly mattered. Sherlock didn’t chose his victims for their conversational skills. 

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to realise the man is in face an ex-army _doctor_ , which is vaguely more interesting, but Sherlock doesn’t enjoy psychological torture, much as the healer/killer dichotomy would be a rich place to delve. The man’s real appeal lies in his physical strength, his probably endurance, and his pre-existing conditions. The shoulder wound, the limp, the tremor. Deviations from the norm were always fascinating to explore. Scar tissue reacted differently to the range of implements Sherlock has acquired. Nerve damage affected sensitivity and produced reactions that were delightfully strange and unexpected. And of course, Sherlock had never had an opportunity to investigate how shrapnel might affect his ministrations. 

It took nearly ten minutes of following the ex-army doctor around the park before Sherlock realised the limp was psychosomatic. Within another ten minutes Sherlock had deduced that the shoulder really was injured, and the tremor was most likely real. Certainly not psychologically induced by stress in any case. The park was quiet and though the man was obviously depressed, he was calm. Bored even. Sherlock wondered how the man would react when presented with danger.

Sherlock started to make his presence more obvious, his stalking of the man more overt. Not enough to rouse the suspicion of strangers, but enough to catch the man’s attention. After only a few minutes, the tremor in the man’s hand had stilled. Fascinating. The man seemed to notice it quickly as well, heading straight for a coffee vendor, apparently normally unable to juggle both the cane and a cup when his hand shook. The loss of tremor even seemed to give the man a boost in confidence, as he chatted easily with the server, producing his phone and writing her a lengthy note. She smiled to herself as he walked away, and Sherlock decided it was time to collect this man.

Sherlock shepherded him away from the park, slowly guiding him into backstreets, making their way into the shady parts of London. Finally when they reach a point where no-one was paying attention and questions were never asked, Sherlock moved quickly to close the distance between them. To his surprise and delight, the man ran. He utterly disregarded a limp that had plaguing him for what must have been at least several weeks if not months. 

It took nearly twenty minutes before Sherlock managed to trap the man in a dead end, and he had to move agilely to drug the man, whose army training still seemed to be serving him well. Still, Sherlock had been doing this for a while, and the man was unconscious in no time.

When the man woke, Sherlock allowed him a few seconds to adjust to his new situation, pleased when he didn’t scream so Sherlock didn’t have to gag him, before Sherlock started his spiel.

“Hello, I’m Sherlock and I’m going to spend the next few days enacting a range of tortures on you before killing you and disposing of you body,” Sherlock said. He waited a few moments to allow the man a reaction, and continued on when it was clear none were forthcoming. “I enjoy the sounds of pain, but I cannot abide pleas for mercy or any other idle chatter. If you are boring, I will gag you. If you are interesting, I will provide some mild pain killers to keep off the worst of it. How I kill you depends on your behaviour over the next few days. I am capable of making it utterly painless or more horrifying than your feeble mind could ever imagine.”

To his surprise, the man gave a laugh. True, it was more of a nervous giggle than a hearty guffaw, but laughter in any form was completely unprecedented.

“Something amusing?” Sherlock enquired coolly.

“Not really, I suppose,” the man said, smiling slightly. “Just- I feel like I’m about to be tortured by my old headmaster. Just don’t tell me I have to write lines. I’ve got this tremor see. Comes and goes, but there’s no way I can write, ‘I will not laugh while being tortured’ one hundred times without wanting to stab myself with the pen at the end.”

And suddenly Sherlock gave a small laugh. The man grinned at him.

“Name’s John, John Watson,” John said.

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said absently. “Are you suffering from any brain injuries or psychological problems beyond the psychosomatic limp and the tremor that disappears in the face of danger?”

“Touch of depression, according to the therapist,” John said. “Sorry, I meant to get my health form in on time, but Mum couldn’t remember if grandma died of cholera or malaria-”

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry, just sort of thought I would run with the school-boy jokes,” John said, licking his lips, apparently the joke falling flat made him nervous. The prospect of sadistic torture, no fear, the idea his torturer wouldn’t think him funny, that he found nerve-wracking.

“No, I got that,” Sherlock said. “I mean why are you making jokes? I know you’re suicidal, but that doesn’t explain how you can be so blasé in the face of horrific torture.”

“Oh,” John said. He looked around the room, at the torture implements, at the plastic sheeting implying a great deal of messy bloodshed and gore was expected, and back at the man standing over him. He pulled at the restraints keeping him attached to the table. “Sorry, I guess the reality of it just hasn’t sunk in yet. You’ve done a really good job here, though.”

“Thank you?” Sherlock said slowly and was rewarded by another smile from John. And oh. Sherlock no longer wanted to _kill_ John, but dear god he still wanted to hurt him. It was quite the conundrum, as John could hardly be allowed to walk free after Sherlock had spent days torturing him, and Sherlock wasn’t responsible enough to keep him permanently. Poor man would die of starvation the first time something mildly interesting took Sherlock’s fancy enough to occupy him for a few days. 

There was no time to really think about possible solutions as he could suddenly hear the sounds of sirens approaching his isolated shack.

Sherlock looked at John in shock. “You contacted the police? When did you-? Oh, clever. The girl at the coffee van. You left her instructions on how to what? Track your phone’s GPS?”

John nodded and shrugged modestly. “We were trained to do something similar in the army.”

“You knew there was something wrong with me, but you let me chase you into a darkened alley and drug you anyway,” Sherlock said.

“Can’t arrest a man for being creepy,” John said, by way of explanation.

“Ah, your hero complex,” Sherlock said. “It’s why you joined the army even though you could have made much more money as a doctor in England. It probably stems from having an alcoholic father; a chance at last to save people, make up for the fact you couldn’t save your mother or brother. You risked your life in order to have me arrested, stop me from ever hurting someone else.”

“In all fairness,” John said. “It’s not that heroic. You said it yourself, I was suicidal.”

“Was?” Sherlock asked. “What’s changed?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John said. “I managed to catch a serial killer, my limp has disappeared, things are looking up.”

The police stormed into the building and Sherlock calmly submitted to to being restrained and checked for weapons, unable to stop smiling at John all the while. He positively beamed. It was too much to have ever hoped for. To meet someone whose body was interesting, whose mind was fascinating, and who was enough quick-witted to catch him.

“John,” Sherlock called out before he was taken away. “You must know that it has been a joy meeting you and I hope we can meet again once I’ve served my term, or manage to escape.”

“I’ll see you before then,” John said, smiling easily, surprising Sherlock yet again. “I’ll come visit you in prison. You can tell me how you knew all that stuff about me, and maybe we can work out a way to turn that brain of yours onto something legal, maybe even something useful.”

“Will you let me hurt you?” Sherlock said urgently. 

“We’ll talk about it, Sherlock,” John said.

“Good,” Sherlock said. And somehow they were smiling and laughing at each other as Sherlock was dragged away by the police, and John was pulled off the table and into an ambulance.


	5. Victor Trevor is Maurice Moss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's old friend from uni comes to visit, but it is too early in the morning for John to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://likeanelephantfootprint.tumblr.com/post/65502084694/theresholesinthesky-mildredandbobbin) as a response to a photoset of Richard Ayoade (Moss) as Victor Trevor and Sherlock.

John padded sleepily into the kitchen, filling the kettle and pulling out some aspirin.

“Morning Sherlock,” he called out around a yawn. “Tea?”

“Hello,” came a voice that definitely wasn’t Sherlock. “I would like some tea also if you are offering.”

John wandered into the living room to find Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and a strange man sitting stiffly in John’s chair. 

“This is Victor Trevor,” Sherlock said without opening his eyes. “We went to university together.”

“Hello,” Victor said.

“Uh, hi,” John said. “Nice to meet you, Victor.”

“I go by Moss now,” Victor- Moss - said.

“Moss then,” John said. “So where did that name come from, Moss?”

“Oh,” Moss said. “I don’t know. That’s just what Roy calls me and I don’t like the idea of having two names. I think it would be confusing. What if there was an emergency and one person said 'Victor, look out for that falling log' and someone else said 'Moss, make sure you don't get bitten by that venomous spider'? The rescue people would have no idea what was going on and those crucial seconds needed to save my life could be wasted as everyone tried to sort out who was Victor and who was Moss.”

John blinked slowly, trying to process what Victor/Moss had just said. He decided it was too early in the morning to deal with this. “So, what brings you here?” 

“I’m sorry. Sherlock did say that this was your chair,” Moss said. “But I can’t sit in the other one. The black leather upsets me. So I stayed here.”

“No, I meant - never mind.” John said. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You seem to be suffering from a headache,” Moss said. “Apparently a headache in the morning is most likely caused by excessive drinking the night before, unless you are suffering from the effects of a brain tumour. Do you have a brain tumour?”

“John went out drinking with an old army buddy last night,” Sherlock said. He opened his eyes to flick them over John. “Six pints?”

“Five,” John said. “Not as young as I used to be. So you two were... friends? Christ, what’s the story there, then?”

“I seemed to have a lot of trouble making friends,” Moss said. “I am unclear why. I have a lot of interesting qualities and hobbies. Sherlock helped me.” 

“ _Sherlock_ helped you make friends?” John said.

“It was an experiment,” Sherlock said.

“It didn’t go well,” Moss said. 

“Can’t imagine why,” John said.

“John’s being sarcastic,” Sherlock said. “He does that a lot. He finds it funny.”

“I don’t find sarcasm very funny,” Moss said.

“I’m going back to bed,” John said.


	6. A Night with the Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silly mini-fill response to the [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=126113217#t126113217): Sherlock accidentally sells John.

“I’ll let you know what you need to know,” the criminal overlord’s eyes flicked over to where John was standing by the door. “For a price.”

 “Oh?” Sherlock said coolly. “And what price would that be?”

 “A night with your doctor friend.”

Sherlock cocked his head, looking over to John, pretending to consider it. He couldn’t believe his luck. This information was worth far more than twelve hours access to a doctor was. Obviously this man needed a doctor whose discretion he could rely on, so it must be something embarrassing or delicate. Probably his son, something to do with his penis, and injury most likely given the timeframe. John would be able to handle that.

“I think that would be agreeable,” Sherlock said. The man grinned wickedly, pupils dilating and breathing increasing. Oh. The man was not interested in John for his medical skills. 

“Go, talk to your doctor friend,” the man said. “I will give you your information when he is in my possession, and you may chose one of my people to hold as a guarantee for his safe return.”

Sherlock nodded and stood up. He sauntered casually over to John, leaning in close to confer with him.

“Ah, John, I may have just accidentally prostituted you out for the night,” Sherlock said quietly.

“What?” John demanded, struggling to keep his voice down.

“In exchange for the information,” Sherlock said. “Just checking, is that something you would be comfortable with?”

“ _No_ , Sherlock,” John said. “That is _not_ something I would be comfortable with in any way ever.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “Then we may need to exit very swiftly.”


	7. Sherlock's Final Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a cold. He isn't sure he is going to make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=126053313#t126053313).

“John, I don’t mean to alarm you, but my temperature is fluctuating wildly, I’m leaking fluid from both nasal cavities as well as from the pores across my forehead and armpits, I’m experiencing slight nausea, a mild headache and I’m deeply uncomfortable,” Sherlock said solemnly. “I may require you assistance in transportation to the hospital. I’m not sure attempting the stairs would be safe in my current condition.”

John glared at Sherlock, folding the newspaper he was rather enjoying, thank you very much, and leaning forward. “Sherlock. You have a cold. I’ll make you some tea, give you some paracetamol , you’ll take a nap and you’ll be fine.”

Sherlock gave John an offended look and rolled over, yanking his dressing gown around him, and tucking up his legs, muttering to himself.

*

“John,” Sherlock croaked quietly from the sofa. John glanced over him. Apart from his hair being sleep rumpled and a slight reddening on his nostrils from blowing his nose, Sherlock seemed completely fine. 

“Do you want more tea?” John offered.

Sherlock held out a hand and gestured for John to come closer. John rolled his eyes but complied, sitting on the coffee table. Sherlock clutched John’s hand in his own, pulling them both to sit on his chest. John looked at Sherlock in surprise and reached out with his other hand to brush over Sherlock’s forehead. Not temperature. No damp curls. Sherlock’s eyes were behaving normally, apart from the wide, longing look they were giving John. His breathing wasn’t laboured, he wasn’t shivering, sweating or coughing. His sniffles were half-hearted.

“John,” Sherlock said again. His gaze had shifted from longing into quite desperate. His voice was quiet, but not weak.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, starting to get a little worried.

“I just need you to know that I have valued our time together,” Sherlock said. “Your contribution to my work has been invaluable. Your blogs are of course sub-par, overly romanticised and missing all the essential facts, but it soothes me to know that my work and my methods won’t be completely lost to people. To think that perhaps one day people might learn to observe, to deduce and understand the world around them.”

“Um, thanks?” John said. Sherlock ignored him.

“More importantly, I need you to know that as much as I have appreciated your efforts to keep me safe, your skill in tackling and shooting villains, and your excellent tea making, what I am most grateful for is your company. You have made me laugh, made me enjoy life, made me happy,” Sherlock said. He gave John’s hand a squeeze. 

“Right,” John said. “What’s this all about?”

“If I’m to die, John, I am glad it is with you by my side,” Sherlock said. He gave a pitiful cough. “I have but one more favour to ask of you.”

“Sherlock, you have a cold” John said. “You’re fine. You are not dying.”

“John, please,” Sherlock said, giving John a terribly soft and vulnerable look. John sighed.

“What is it?”

“A kiss,” Sherlock said. “Just one, just a symbol, a sign that I was loved in this world and I will go quietly, content with my lot.”

John stared at Sherlock, groaned, and bent down to brush a small kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He didn’t know what to make of Sherlock’s small sigh of contentment.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

*

“So,” John said conversationally over breakfast the next morning. “Didn’t die in your sleep, then?”

Sherlock looked over at John from where he stood, delicately setting swatches of fabric alight.

“Excellent observation,” Sherlock said. “Your skills as a doctor are next to none.”

“Mmm,” John agreed. “Apparently I’ve mastered kissing dying damsels back to full health.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed pink, but he remained otherwise completely composed.

“I should let them know at work,” John said. “Imagine all the money the NHS could save if I went around kissing patients back to life.”

Sherlock’s hand shook slightly as he set another swatch on fire.

“Of course, it probably only works on people who have life-threatening colds and there’s not many of those around nowadays.” John picked up his newspaper and started reading, not looking away as he added, “Plus, all the research indicates a certain degree of love is required, and I’m not that attached to most of my patients.”

John glanced over to find Sherlock smiling at his pile of ash, and turned back to his newspaper, shaking his head and smiling fondly.


	8. Yearly Review

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of the year and John takes the time to review Sherlock's sex diary and double check that their sex life has been up to scratch in all areas, only to find something is amiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit of silliness came to me after the lovely [BeautifulFiction](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction) received some criticism for not ensuring she depicts Sherlock and John each 'topping' and 'bottoming' the same number of times in her fics.

“Sherlock,” John said, sounding quite concerned as he pored over a document on Sherlock’s laptop.

“Mmm?” Sherlock replied absently, carefully dripping an opaque liquid into a tray of what appeared to be human hair.

“I was just reading your sex diary-” John said. 

“Sexual liaison logbook,” Sherlock corrected. “As a doctor and my current sexual partner I think you ought to be more appreciative of the scientific rather than sentimental approach I take to recording my sexual encounters.”

“Nothing sexier than a tape measure and a protractor in the bedroom,” John said, rolling his eyes before continuing. “I found something that concerns me, though.”

“If it’s the sex dream I had last Thursday, I'd simply spent a long day staring at a kitchenware shop-”

“No, no,” John said. “I was just skimming through, and I couldn’t help but notice that I have been topping a lot more than you recently, so I went through and added it up.”

Sherlock carefully placed the pipette down and gave John his full attention.

“I’ve topped forty-three times more than you this year,” John said gravely, face twisting with regret. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just don’t always stop to think about whose turn it is when we get caught up in the heat of the moment. Sometimes I’m not even thinking about who is topping and who is bottoming, sex just seems to happen. And I know this is wrong and unfair to you, but in the back of my mind I’m thinking it doesn’t matter, Sherlock will be keeping track, I don’t need to worry about it.”

“John,” Sherlock said, voice catching slightly. “I should have been paying more attention, I’m the less sexually dominant partner, it’s my job to keep track of that-”

John leapt up and was at Sherlock’s side in an instant, hands cupping Sherlock’s jaw, thumb brushing across Sherlock’s lips to silence him.

“No, that’s not how this relationship works,” John said firmly. “I don’t blame you, it was unfair of me to neglect my own responsibilities.”

Sherlock smiled softly at John and John removed his hand, allowing Sherlock to say, “It’s no one’s fault, sex is notorious for disrupting higher brain function. Next year, however, I will make a chart and keep copies around the flat, and on our phones.”

John grinned and leaned in to kiss Sherlock, but when he pulled back, his face grew serious.

“We’ll definitely make sure to do better next year,” John said. “But we’re still out for this year and there’s only twelve days left.”

Sherlock nodded sombrely, hands dropping down to undo his belt buckle. “We’d better get started then.”

John clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll get the lube.”


	9. A Most Illogical Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to the [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125758657#t125758657): Parent!Lock: Sherlock the Stay-At-Home Daddy
> 
> My headcanon dictates that once they have their baby, John works more regular hours at the surgery so they can have a steady income to provide for their son/daughter. Thus, on some days, Sherlock has to spend the entire day with their son/daughter: feeding him/her, dressing him/her, playing with him/her, dealing with tantrums, naps, nappies, crying, the whole nine yards. Sherlock is so used to rationalizing people with his words, I'd imagine dealing with a child would be very tough. The only thing I ask for is the child to be no older than toddler age, and don't make Sherlock too mean! He loves his son/daughter, he just isn't 100% sure what he's doing at first.
> 
> Bonus for others finding out Sherlock is acting as a stay-at-home parent and trying to help: Lestrade just "happened" to be in the neighborhood, "friends" of Mycroft's always on the street below, Harry just had to "drop off" something for John, etc.

“Christ,” John said, looking down at the little pink thing in his arms. “It’s suddenly got a bit more real, hasn’t it? Do you think we’ll make a mess of it?”

Sherlock smiled at the baby. “Nonsense, we’ve been preparing for this for a sufficiently long time. And infants aren’t particularly demanding, if they were too difficult to raise the human race would have died out a long time ago.”

“You don’t think it will be harder, being two dads?” John asked, a fresh wave of nerves overcoming him. 

“Socially, perhaps,” Sherlock said. “But if you are worried about a lack of female parentage, I would remind you that you’re more than capable of providing the child with affection, compassion, nurturing, and a range of other elements traditionally associated with mothers. And of course, I am a genius, so I will acquire any skills you lack. She’ll be well provided for.”

“The child,” John snorted. “Her name’s Charlotte.”

“Charlotte,” Sherlock said. “My apologies, Charlotte.”

The first six weeks with Charlotte were rather lovely. Some small challenges, but everything seemed to be going smoothly. Charlotte was delightful, both John and Sherlock found themselves falling more and more in love with her everyday. Whatever nerves John had been suffering from seemed to melt away as he took to the practical aspects of parenting with ease. It was also much easier to mesh the detective work with the raising of a baby than anticipated, through a combination of Mrs Hudson’s babysitting and Lestrade’s uncanny ability to always have an extra officer who was good with children on hand. But this little ‘honeymoon’ period could not last forever, and it was soon time for John to go back to work.

“And you’re sure you’ll be alright?” John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said. “We agreed it would be best if we had some form of steady income and it’s far more logical for you to pursue this. I don’t feel undervalued or emasculated or any of that other nonsense the video talked about.”

“Right, but you’ll be okay with, you know, the baby?” John said, smiling a little.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Yes, of course. Feed, sleep, nappy changing, affection, repeat every few hours. I’ll be fine.”

“You know the number if you need me,” John said. He gave Sherlock a kiss, and then leaned down into the cot to do the same for Charlotte and left for work.

“Your father is quite absurd,” Sherlock informed Charlotte. “Child-rearing is fairly basic. I think we’ll be fine without him hovering around worrying.”

Sherlock sat in the kitchen studying chemically burned skin cells for nearly half-an-hour, feeling rather smug at his excellent parenting skills, and looking forward to boasting to John about what an easy day he had, and having John praise his superior techniques, possibly showing admiration through sexual favours, when Charlotte started crying.

“One moment, Charlotte!” Sherlock called out.

Charlotte continued to cry.

“I have two more slides and then we can deal with whatever problem you are experiencing!” Sherlock explained.

Charlotte’s crying increased. 

“I cannot work if you are noisy!” Sherlock said. “The quieter you are, the sooner I will be free to attend to you! It’s quite logical!”

Charlotte’s crying was growing frantic, and Sherlock found he could no longer leave her alone. So he put the slides aside, switched off the microscope and walked back into the nursery, leaning down over the cot.

“I hope you realise the preferential treatment you are receiving,” Sherlock told Charlotte sternly. “It could be argued that your father is one of the people I love, admire and respect most in the world, but I have never, ever stopped looking at slides to deal with his grievances. Now, what’s the problem?”

Charlotte, who had quietened at sight of Sherlock, soothed by the sounds of her father’s voice, started crying again in earnest as it quickly became apparent that her needs weren’t going to be dealt with. Sherlock frowned and picked her up. He checked her nappy, found it clean, and decided she was hungry. He held her out in front of him.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Sherlock asked. Charlotte gave Sherlock a miserable look. Sherlock nodded. “Right, I’ll just make you up a bottle, wait here, I’ll be back in approximately five minutes.”

Sherlock put Charlotte back down in the cot and she gave a few pathetic sobs that quickly turned into wailing as Sherlock headed for the kitchen. He turned back quickly.

“I’m about to bring you sustenance,” Sherlock said. “It will be a far more efficient process if you remain here while I prepare it.”

Charlotte began crying again as Sherlock turned to leave, so, with a sigh, he returned and picked her up, bouncing her and saying, “You are far too much like your father. He can’t stand it when I leave him behind either.”

Sherlock held Charlotte securely in one arm, and went to the fridge to fetch the milk John had made up this morning, pleased to find there were clear instructions on how to heat it. It was simply a matter of filling a saucepan, heating it over the lowest setting, checking the temperature with his elbow, and then transferring it to a bottle. Easy.

Remembering the stern lectures on child safety, Sherlock put Charlotte down in the loungeroom on her blanket, thinking it was probably for the best that babies and stoves weren’t combined. As soon as Sherlock turned back to the kitchen, though, Charlotte was off again. Sherlock sighed and picked her up again. 

Heating the milk whilst not setting fire to the baby required more dexterity and balance than Sherlock expected, especially with Charlotte distracting him, struggling to reach out and grab the bottle, the saucepan, the stove, Sherlock’s hands. Eventually the milk was the correct temperature and Charlotte guzzled at it happily.

“You have excellent suction,” Sherlock informed her. “I suspect in this, you are greatly superior to other babies. Being brilliant, my dear Charlotte, comes with many hardships, but your father and I will work to ensure you see only the advantages.”

Charlotte gurgled happily, stretching her mouth into a wide grin that Sherlock returned instinctively.

“I will now burp you, finish my last two slides, and if you are very well behaved, you can sit on my lap while I type my report for Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “In fact, if you can keep your fingers free from saliva, you may type some of it yourself.”

Charlotte stuck her fingers in her mouth and made a cheerful sound.

“Yes, I thought that would be a challenge,” Sherlock said. “Never mind, we’ll just use Daddy’s computer.”

Sherlock pulled out a small towel, placed it over his shoulder, and lay Charlotte across it, patting her back and rocking her as he walked around the flat. He was briefly filled with satisfaction that Charlotte burped nearly seventeen seconds earlier than she did when she was with John, but it was replaced by annoyance then worry as the burp turned into spitting up Sherlock looked at the yellowish liquid covering the blue towel and shuffled Charlotte around so he could reach for his phone. He was just about to hit ‘call’ when his mind caught up to what he was doing. 

"You aren't dying, are you?" Sherlock said, looking at Charlotte seriously. She gave him an unhappy look, dribbled a little bit, but was otherwise her usual pink-cheeked self. Sherlock nodded. “Let’s leave Daddy alone, then.”

Charlotte burbled at Sherlock, but stopped dribbling and Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket. The next hour was spent checking Charlotte’s temperature, researching causes for spitting up, and massaging Charlotte’s abdomen to check nothing was swollen or sore. This last delighted Charlotte and making Sherlock suddenly understand John’s bizarre urge to kiss or blow raspberries on her belly. Sherlock wanted to practice some of the feeding poses that had arisen in his research, recognising that logically some positions would be more beneficial to Charlotte’s digestion, but Charlotte was growing restless. 

“Charlotte,” Sherlock said firmly, but not crossly. “This will be far more beneficial to you than to me.”

Charlotte started to squirm with irritation, her face screwing up.

“There, there, no need to fuss,” Sherlock said as cheerfully as he could manage. “How about this? We practice this for ten more minutes, and then we can lie on the floor and I’ll find some toys to give you visual and aural stimulation, you seem fond of that.”

Charlotte shook her head and kicked her legs, banging her fists on her thighs. Sherlock sighed and moved into the sitting room, carefully putting her down on her mat and picking up a brightly coloured soft toy. He waggled it in front of Charlotte, smiling as he explained how such a creature would never exist. Utterly enthralled, Charlotte stared at the toy, following it’s movements intently before reaching out and grabbing at it. Sherlock surrendered the toy, watching her play for a few moments until he was convinced she was suitably preoccupied by it.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen Charlotte, let me know if you require anything,” Sherlock said, kissing her forehead and standing, returning to his slides.

Sherlock had finished with his slides and was just contemplating the implications of his findings when Charlotte started making noises of distress at the same time there was a knock on the door, and Lestrade opened the door.

“Charlotte requires a nappy change, but you’re cautious entrance suggests there is no urgency, so provided your team can be trusted to not completely destroy all of the evidence in the next few minutes, I presume there is time for me to deal with that, hand Charlotte over to Mrs Hudson, and collect John on the way,” Sherlock said, walking over to pick up Charlotte, and bringing her to the designated ‘absolutely-no-experiments-chemicals-or-poisons’ surface they used for changing nappies.

“Oh, there’s no case,” Lestrade said. “Just popped in to see how you were doing, first day alone with the baby. I’ve gotta say, it’s strange seeing you so… domestic.”

Sherlock scoffed, manoeuvering Charlotte easily out of her soiled nappy. “As I keep reminding John, infant rearing is fairly basic. Charlotte is still unable to follow my reasoning which makes negotiating tricky, but keeping her fed, clean, and appropriately stimulated is hardly difficult.”

Lestrad chuckled. “You think reasoning’s hard now? Wait until she gets a bit older. My daughter’s just turned fifteen and most of the time I’m reduced to bribery.”

Sherlock finished attaching the new nappy, tucked her back into her clothes and lay her down on her mat again, where she immediately started squirming with displeasure, making small unhappy noises, so Sherlock picked her up again.

“Right, well, if everything’s under control here, I’ll leave you to it,” Lestrade said. Sherlock rocked Charlotte, who quietened but didn’t seem inclined to settle, absently giving Lestrade a dismissive wave.

“Hmm, hungry again,” Sherlock said, looking over Charlotte appraisingly. “And growing tired.”

Preparing Charlotte’s bottle seemed someone yet more complicated than it had this morning, Sherlock trying to work out the mess he had created over the course of the morning, and Charlotte growing more and more restless in his arms. When it finally was prepared, the kitchen was a disaster, and Charlotte seemed completely disinclined to sit properly in the feeding position Sherlock had determined to be the best.

“If you fold yourself over in that manner your digestive tract isn’t properly- Don’t drink so quickly! You’re taking in too much air!” Sherlock tugged the bottle away from Charlotte, who wailed at the loss. “I’m simply trying to prevent you from making yourself ill! Don’t look at me that way, I’m _helping_ \- fine! Make yourself ill!”

Charlotte gave a few more sobs around the bottle, and Sherlock found himself clucking and making cooing noises, until Charlotte finished her milk. Sherlock burped Charlotte carefully, unsurprised when she once again spat up some of her milk, simply relieved she seemed to be in no distress.

“There, that’s better,” Sherlock said, as Charlotte yawned and turned to snuggle into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I think you’ll know better for next time, so we’ll say no more about it.”

Sherlock kissed the top of Charlotte’s head, enjoying the softness of her fine hair, and the smell of her skin, glad no one was here to witness his sentimental indulgence. He walked around the room with her until she seemed to have settled and took her into the nursery to lie her down in her cot. As soon as her back hit the mattress, Charlotte’s eyes sprung open.

“Time to sleep, Charlotte,” Sherlock said softly. He leaned down to kiss her forehead and then backed out of the room. The kitchen was full of mess, so Sherlock continued on into the sitting room and sat down on his armchair, thinking about the connection between the burns he had been studying this morning, and those found on a victim in a cold case Lestrade had given him. Small noises of distress had followed him as he left Charlotte, but he had decided to ignore them, thinking it better to let her sniffle a bit as she fell asleep rather than go in and waken her further. The longer he sat in sitting room, however, the more anxious Charlotte had become, slowly working herself up into hysterics.

“Charlotte,” Sherlock called as he walked back to her. “You are simply over-tired, you will not feel better until you sleep.”

This somehow failed to soothe Charlotte, and Sherlock picked her up, quickly checking her temperature and nappy to make sure nothing was wrong.

“Come now, why don’t you try sleeping in my arms while I solve the murder of Timothy Green?” Sherlock suggested. Charlotte was no longer screaming with unhappiness, but neither had she been appeased by Sherlock’s rocking her nor his suggestion. 

For nearly an hour, Sherlock walked around the flat, rocking Charlotte, finding toys to shake at her, talking to her, stroking her back, giving her kisses, and nothing seemed to soothe her. Just as Sherlock was growing frustrated, there was another knock at the door. 

“Go away!” Sherlock called crossly. The door opened, as Harry had apparently taken this as an invitation to come in.

“Hello!” Harry said cheerfully. Sherlock looked her over. Sobriety seemed to be suiting her, but this was no surprise as John would not have allowed Harry contact with Charlotte if she was not coping. “How’s it going?”

She crossed the room and looked at Charlotte. “Hello there little munchkin, how’s mean old Sherlock treating you? You’re such a cutie, yes you are, oh yes you are!”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Sherlock snapped. “She’s not an imbecile.”

“She looks tired,” Harry said. “When’s naptime?”

“Now,” Sherlock said. “She’s having trouble settling. Obviously.”

“Have you tried feeding her?” Harry asked. “Or does her nappy need changing? You’d better check her temperature, she might have picked up a bug, babies do that, and you have to keep an eye on them.”

Sherlock swallowed down on his urge to strangle Harry as he knew John would be upset if Charlotte witnessed the murder of her aunt. 

“No, strangely enough it didn’t occur to me that my baby needs to be fed, have her nappy changed and could be affected by illness, how ever would I have managed if you hadn’t popped in,” Sherlock said. “Well, now that you have saved the day, I think you can be off now.”

Sherlock herded Harry to the door, ignore her protests and offers for help, and shoving her unceremoniously outside, locking the door behind her.

“For some reason John loves his sister,” Sherlock said seriously to Charlotte. “And so we are going to have to endure many years of her company for him.”

Charlotte made an unhappy face at this, but apparently Harry’s presence made her aware of how much worse everything could be, and it was only another half-an-hour before she seemed willing to try sleeping again.

This time Sherlock stayed next to Charlotte’s cot, talking softly to her, telling her stories of the crimes he and John had solved, until she was fast asleep. Then walked silently out of the room, heading through the kitchen and finally collapsing onto the sofa, falling asleep almost immediately. 

 

When John arrived home that afternoon, he was surprised by how much he had missed his daughter, and so jogged up the stairs, keen to see how Sherlock and Charlotte had survived the day. The sight that greeted him wasn’t a _surprise_ exactly, he hadn’t expected to come home to a spotless flat, but the sheer _amount_ of mess that Sherlock had managed to create was quite staggering, given he had only been gone for a few hours. Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, sound asleep, which again wasn’t unusual, but John had assumed Sherlock would greet him, either brimming over with boasts of how well his day went, or else seeking John’s sympathy if things had not turned out to be as easy as he had anticipated.

John walked into Charlotte’s room and stared down at his sleeping baby, drinking her in, not game to pick her up and wake her as she looked terribly peaceful. He leaned in to kiss her and then returned to the loungeroom, shaking Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock opened one eye, saying, “Charlotte’s asleep, she’s been fed twice, spat up a small amount both times, she’s probably due for a nappy change.” before going back to sleep. John chuckled fondly and decided he should deal with the mess of bottles and saucepans before Charlotte needed feeding again.

 

When Sherlock woke properly, it was to the sight of John sitting in his armchair, beaming at Charlotte in his lap. Sherlock rolled off the sofa and walked over to them, collapsing on the floor and dropping his head in John’s lap, between John’s belly and Charlotte.

“It is strictly necessary that one have qualifications to work as a doctor?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily.

“Rough day?” John asked, striving to keep his voice sympathetic, not letting any of his amusement seep in. “Did you make things hard today, Charlotte?”

“I’m beginning to fear she will take after you in her reasoning skills,” Sherlock said sadly. “Though clearly showing signs of intelligence in other areas, she is hopelessly undeveloped when it comes to processing and applying the logical suggestions and solutions I present her with.”

John bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing, and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. Charlotte giggled happily and Sherlock turned his head to kiss her foot.

“Ah well,” John said. “Never mind. Somehow I’m sure we’ll manage.”


	10. Sherlock is Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is prepared. John is confused.

When Sherlock informed John that they would be going camping John had nodded, absently thought that as far as Sherlock's hare-brained schemes went, this one was rather nice, and went to check if Harry still had the old family tent. A bit of hiking, a bit if swimming, a touch of crime solving and a dramatic chase to finish it off. It had sounded like a nice weekend away.

Now, John stood staring at the box of condoms an bottle of lube Sherlock had packed wondering if he had missed something.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John called out, when he realised ignoring this and hoping it went away wasn't really an option. God only knew what would happen if he didn't straighten this out. Unbidden, John flushed at the thought of what Sherlock must be imaging was going to happen.

"John?" Sherlock replied, popping his head through the tent flap, pink cheeked and panting from chasing some rare bee he had spotted moments after arriving, leaving John to set up the tent. Sherlock pink cheeked and panting was precisely the image that had popped into John's mind, so it took him a minute before he could concentrate on what he had to say.

"What the hell is this?" John demanded, shoving the offending items in question at Sherlock.

"Condoms and lubricant," Sherlock said. "Honestly John, as if it weren't bad enough that you are a _doctor_ , it's written on the sides of the packet. If that's all, I have a bee to catch."

"No, that is not all," John said. "Why have you brought them? Are you... expecting something to happen?"

"It's a reasonable possibility," Sherlock said. "I don't really mind either way, but if this particular trip happens to the time a combination of isolated intimacy, sexual tension and our mutual love leads to you wanting to pursue things further, it would be a pity to be stopped by a lack of supplies."

"Wait, this particular trip?" John asked. "Do you think this is a possibility every time we go away?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "Sometimes it's more likely, of course, the weekend we were in Paris on Valentine's day comes to mind, and some are highly unlikely, like the weekend we went to Devon and you got a concussion and vomited all over the bathrooms and we had to pay a cleaning fee."

"So you _always_ bring these supplies when we have a trip away?" John asked.

"Well not these ones specifically, I swap them when they expire," Sherlock said reassuringly. "And of course there's a few different sets at the flat."

"At the flat," John repeated.

"Yes, of course at the flat," Sherlock said. "Don't you look in your bedside drawers?"

"Apparently not," John said. "Christ, Sherlock, are you saying you want to sleep with me?"

"I'm saying it's fairly inevitable," Sherlock said. "And I don't find the idea disagreeable. I think there could be a lot of advantages, in fact."

"Right," John said.

"Best get back to this bee," Sherlock said. John nodded absently, trying to reconcile his understanding of their friendship with this conversation.

 

"Hang on, did you say you loved me?" John asked the next morning, keeping his voice low so as to not alert the killer to their presence.

"I said the sentiment was one mutually held," Sherlock whispered back absently. "So I suppose technically I did."

"Right," John said, a bit overwhelmed. 

 

"I love you, too," John said, hours later, wrapping a towel around a shivering, but triumphant Sherlock, who rolled his eyes but kissed John fondly.


End file.
